


The Adventures of Little Nicola

by Tereshkova (EarthboundCosmonaut)



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Crack, Gen, Kittens, Twitter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-07 01:40:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14070129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EarthboundCosmonaut/pseuds/Tereshkova
Summary: "Deputy Director of Communications, HM Government, reads the Twitter profile.Likes: Dreamies, belly rubs, evisceration. Dislikes: Incompetence, idiocy, the Opposition"When Malcolm Tucker rescues a kitten, it proves surprisingly difficult to get rid of.





	The Adventures of Little Nicola

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LunaCatriona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaCatriona/gifts).



> Dedicated to LunaCatriona, for being my partner in crime in this lunacy.

By London standards it’s fucking freezing. Malcolm tucks his sheaf of papers under his arm and digs his hands deep into his pockets as he stalks along Horse Guards Road towards Number 10. He wouldn’t have even noticed the boys – teenagers – if one of them hadn’t barrelled into him. 

“For fuck’s sake!” he yells as he scrambles to retrieve a confidential briefing note on Olympic security (conclusion: they probably won’t be very secure at all unless the Governments subsidises the Mayor’s Office to the tune of £40 million) as it drifts towards the wheels of a passing taxi. “Would you lot watch what yer fuckin’ doin’? While yous are pissin’ around out here some of us are tryin’ to run the fuckin’ country!” 

Paper secured, he rounds of a group of four teenagers who look shocked to be spoken to in such a manner by a stranger. When they catch sight of Malcolm’s livid eyebrows and maniacal expression their shock transforms into outright terror. 

“Well!?” he demands. “What the fuck are yeh doin’ out here anyway? Shouldn’t yeh be in school learning how to fill out housin’ benefit forms?” 

“I’m nineteen,” mumbles the least cowed-looking of the boys. 

“Shopliftin’ to feed yer kid then! Piss off and leave the grown-ups to get on with their work.” 

The boys turn tail and all but run. Malcolm’s about to resume his march towards Number 10 when something moving on the pavement that the boys have just vacated catches his eye. It’s small, grey, furry, and making pathetic squeaking noises that he can hear over the sound of the London traffic. Torturing small animals is the kind of thing that teenage boys do in packs, he reflects darkly. He crouches down, thinking that it’s an injured rat that might require putting out of its misery. 

It’s not a rat though, it’s a kitten. Malcolm lifts it by the scruff of the neck. Its fur is wet and it’s shivering and mewling pitifully, but he can’t see any obvious sign of injury. The kitten looks at him with round eyes and gives a surprisingly loud meow for an animal the size of his fist. 

Malcolm is under no illusions that he is a nice person. His attitude to others could at best be described as indifferent and most days is downright misanthropic. But even he draws the line at allowing animals to die – which this kitten inevitably will if left on its own on the pavement. If it doesn’t get trampled or run over, it will get eaten by a rat or a fox, or one of London's aggressive mutant pigeons.

If he takes it back to the office, Sam can arrange for it to be taken to Battersea Dogs & Cats Home. Tom’s been building a relationship with the charity to try and soften his dour Scots image. So far it hasn’t been working – Tom’s forced grin as he met some dogs waiting to be rehomed looked like he had lockjaw. Maybe a feel-good story about the PM saving an abandoned kitten will be more successful. 

Malcolm wraps the cat in a handkerchief – God only knows what kind of dirt and parasites it’s picked up on the street – and tucks it in the inside pocket of his jacket. It wriggles against his chest then settles, and he feels the vibrations of a contented purr. He hefts his papers and continues on his way. 

* * *

On the way back to his office Malcolm gets waylaid by Julius, who wants approval for a press release written in language so arcane and impenetrable that it could have been composed by a medieval monk with advanced mercury poisoning. By the time he’s finished translating it into modern English it's two PM and he’s starving. He swings by Sam’s office to send her out for a sandwich. 

Part way through placing his order (jam and cheese on white bread and two cans of Fanta) he becomes aware that he doesn’t have Sam’s full attention. Her eyes keep straying to his chest.

“Admirin’ my pecs?” he asks. “I’ve been shovelling a lot of shit recently so they are looking particularly buff.” 

She shakes her head, backing away slightly. “Malcolm, I don’t want to alarm you but there’s something moving in your jacket." 

On cue, there’s a squeak from Malcolm’s breast pocket. Sam yelps and jumps to her feet. 

Malcolm grins. He'd forgotten about the cat. “Don’t worry, I’m not spawnin’.” He reaches into his pocket and extracts the kitten, laying it on the desk. Its fur has dried out and is now fluffy and bouffant. 

Sam’s face changes from horror to delight. “Ahhhh,” she says, squealing at a frequency that hurts his ears. “How adorable! Where did you get it?” 

“Found it on the street.” 

Sam sits in her chair and reaches out to stroke the kitten’s head with the tip of her finger. The kitten mewls in delight and Sam’s face melts into the soppy expression that women get around babies and fluffy animals. 

“It’s so sweet. Are you going to keep it?” 

Malcolm snorts. “Do I look like the kind of person that has a fuckin’ cat? It’s goin’ to Battersea as soon as they can take it. Can yeh sort that out today.” 

“Are you sure? It seems to like you.” Sure enough, the kitten has toddled to the edge of the desk and is gently pawing at Malcolm’s coat. “I think it wants to go back to sleep in your pocket.”

Malcolm picks up the kitten and deposits it back on the centre of Sam’s desk. “I’m not keepin’ it. It’s a walkin’ fuckin’ petri dish for germs. Get rid of it or I will.”   

* * *

By the end of the day, Sam has most definitely not got rid of the kitten. A box file has been repurposed as a cat enclosure. The kitten is sleeping inside it on a folded up jumper (cashmere, he notes in horror - what a waste). Next to the impromptu cat bed is a saucer of water and another saucer of cat food. 

“What the fuck’s that thing still doin’ here?” Malcolm demands. 

“When I spoke to the people at Battersea they said it was too late in the day to take it over,” Sam explains. “I’ll have to try again tomorrow.” 

“I found it at lunch time,” he points out. “What are they, fuckin’ French? Open ten ‘til one and every other fuckin’ Tuesday afternoon?” 

“I’ll call again in the morning.”  

Normally Sam is eminently trustworthy, but he has a strong suspicion that she is lying to him. He can’t accuse her of this though, because he went through seven PAs in two years before he found Sam and he can’t face that again. “Aye, see that yeh do. We’ve got enough dumb animals wondering the halls already without adding that to the list. And you can stop doin’ that,” he tells the cat, who is staring at him with huge round eyes and purring loudly. “Cute doesn’t work on me.” 

“Goodnight Malcolm,” says Sam.

* * *

Three days later, the kitten is still there. Sam has come up with a succession of excuses for why it hasn’t gone to Battersea, each more tenuous than the last. She is also dropping hints about how useful it would be to have a cat around given Number 10’s chronic mouse problem and Operation Make Tom Seem Human. Worse still, word that there is a kitten in Malcolm’s rooms has started to spread around the building. Sam’s office is visited by a succession of gawpers and gift bringers. The bloody cat gets more presents in three days than Malcolm has in three years.  

When he arrives at work on Friday, the cat is curled up on a radiator bed, chewing a toy mouse. It jumps off the bed when he enters and walks over to him, rubbing against his leg and purring loudly. 

“It likes you,” says Sam with a smile. “It doesn’t do that with anyone else.” 

Malcolm nudges the cat away with his foot, but it just walks over to his other leg and does the same thing. “Battersea on strike are they? Or maybe they’re havin’ a power cut today? Or under quarantine for foot and mouth?” 

“I’ll call again today, but they do seem very busy at the moment.” 

“Aye, see that yeh do.” He crosses to his office. “And get Nicola Murray over here. The dozy cow’s gone too far this time – I’m goin’ to staple her fuckin’ mouth shut.” 

“Okay,” Sam says. “I probably won’t put it exactly like that on the phone though - I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.” 

* * *

He’s pretty sure that there’s nothing between Nicola Murray’s ears. She certainly doesn’t seem concerned by the tirade of obscenity flowing from his mouth. She’s looking at him with that vaguely sceptical expression she defaults to when she’s not looking sullen or panicky. She is supremely unmoved by his description of how he plans on killing her and displaying her mutilated body in the lobby of the House as a warning to other MPs. 

“Well?! He demands, trying to get her to speak just so that he can be sure she hasn’t had a stroke. “Is there a reason why you’ve dropped us in the fuckin’ shit _again_!? I though Hugh Abbott was bad but at least he did as he was fuckin’ told!” 

“Everyone knows the reporting system’s useless,” she says, as calmly as though she’s ordering a cappuccino. “It’s probably still running on MS-DOS – or punch cards. You’re blowing this out of proportion.” 

“Out of fuckin’ proportion?? Aye, everyone knows it’s a fucking piece of shit but no one else is moronic enough to say so in front of a fuckin’ _journalist_! Do you actually _want_ the whole world to know that yeh haven’t got a fuckin clue what yer doin’? Jesus fuckin’ Christ, we’ve already been through the don’t-air-the-dirty-laundry-in-front-of-journalists bollocks with the immigration stats. Glenn’s fuckin’ retarded son learns quicker than you!” 

It’s no use though – she’s not even looking in his direction any more. He follows her gaze and sees the kitten sauntering across the floor towards Nicola’s chair. For fuck’s sake. “Sam! Would yeh keep the fuckin’ door shut! The soddin’ cat’s in here again!”

“Sorry!” says Sam’s voice as she shuts the adjoining door between their offices – leaving the kitten on Malcolm’s side of it.

“Is this your cat, Malcolm?” Nicola asks. The kitten is rubbing itself around her ankle, purring loudly. Nicola is wearing an expression so gormless that he wants to put a bag over her head just so that he doesn’t have to look at it.

“No. It’s a fuckin’ stray that _SAM HASN’T GOT ROUND TO REHOMING_!” He shouts this last comment loud enough for Sam to hear through the door so that she is reminded that he knows her game and he’s not putting up with it for much longer.

“But – he? She?”

Malcolm shrugs. “Dunno.”

“How can you not know what sex it is?” Nicola asks, lifting up the cat and examining it's rear. "It's a boy. Really, it's not that hard to tell Malcolm. The balls are a dead giveaway." She places him on her lap. The kitten begins to knead her skirt, purring rhythmically.

“I’m not keepin’ the fuckin’ thing. It was only supposed to be here a few hours - that was four fuckin’ _days_ ago.”

“Maybe a pet would do you good. Bring out your nurturing side.”

“I don’t have a nurturing side.”

“Everyone does. Yours is just buried deeper than most. _Very_ deeply...”

It’s annoying enough spending time in the same room as Nicola Murray, without having it drawn out by banal conversation about cats and touchy feely crap. “I know it’s a huge strain for yer already overstretched brain cell, but would yeh pay attention for five fuckin’ minutes!? I’ve got better things to do with my time than talk to you.”

Nicola is still distracted by the kitten, which has sprawled on its back in her lap. The expression on his face as Nicola rubs its belly is little short of orgasmic. “What’s he called?” 

“Wha’?” 

“The cat – what’s he called?” 

“Christ on a bike woman, is there _anything_ in yer head? I’m tryin’ to explain the extreme undesirability of the voting public discoverin’ that the government’s IT infrastructure is a counting machine manned by Oompa Loompas and yer talkin’ about a fuckin’ _cat_!” 

“You’ve got to call him something - you can’t keep calling him ‘the fucking cat’.” 

“I’m no’ keepin’ it. Sam’s going to take it to Battersea.” 

“She doesn’t seem to be in any hurry,” Nicola observes, a point Malcolm darkly acknowledges the truth of. “You’ve got to give him a name in the meantime,” she persists. 

Malcolm groans and places his head in his hands. She’s not going to let it go, and he has actual work he needs to do today. "All right then, fine! I'll call it Nicola - because it's fuckin' annoying and it never fuckin’ shuts up!" 

“You can’t call him Nicola, he’s a boy.” 

So she doesn’t object to having an animal named after her on the grounds that it’s demeaning, she objects on the grounds that it’s the wrong sex. The woman is ridiculous. “It’s fuckin’ loud and fuckin’ annoying - it’s called Nicola!” 

She gives him that sullen look of hers. “Fine, if you want to be a laughing stock, call him Nicola.” 

“ _You’re_ the fuckin’ laughin’ stock,” he tells her, sensing an opening. “Did they skip English in that overpriced school yeh went to so they could dedicate more time to teaching needlework and the art of fellatio?” He resumes his bollocking from where he left off, but it’s clear that Nicola is listening to him even less than normal. She’s too busy scratching the ears of the little cat, which is still sprawled on her lap like a French whore. 

* * *

Much to Malcolm’s disgust, the kitten becomes a semi-permanent resident in Sam’s office – or more accurately the office suite he shares with Sam, as he seems to take every opportunity he can get to venture into Malcolm’s office and nap on his desk or paw at his arm while he’s trying to write. It’s only his fear of having to recruit a new PA that allows this state of affairs continue. He resolves to wait until the kitten inevitably does something indefensible – such as vomiting one of Number 10's many antique furnishings or taking a dump on Tom’s desk – so that he can get rid of it once and for all.

In the interim, Nicola becomes something of an attraction in Number 10. He goes on periodic explorations of the corridor, where he is petted and treated by seemingly every inhabitant of and visitor to the building. In hindsight, Malcolm should have insisted that the cat stayed confined to the office where one of them could keep an eye on it, because one Tuesday morning he opens the Telegraph and finds his own face staring back at him under the headline ‘ _Demon of Whitehall recruits deputy_ ’. With a sinking feeling, Malcolm reads the accompanying article.

_‘#swearykitten has been trending on Twitter this week after the account @littlenicola has quickly attracted a cult following._

_‘The creation of the parody account follows Downing Street Communications Director Malcolm Tucker’s unlikely adoption of a kitten. Government insiders say that the spin doctor has christened the moggie Nicola after the Minister for Social Affairs and Citizenship, Nicola Murray, despite the fact that it is male. It’s not clear whether this is an affectionate tribute to the Minister or an example of workplace bullying from a man reputed to take pleasure in reducing experienced MPs to tears_.

‘ _The content of @littlenicola’s Tweets are unprintable in this publication. Suffice to say that the man known as the sweariest man in Whitehall appears to have found a deputy able to match him obscenity for obscenity._ ’

Malcolm groans. Twitter is fast becoming the bane of his life. First the Julie Price debacle at Eastbourne and now this. Does nobody have a fucking life any more? And why the fuck is Nicola Murray at the heart of every balls up that comes across his desk these days?

“Sam!” he yells, walking through into her office. As usual, Sam is entirely unfazed by his warlike entrance. “Get on Twitter and show me this fuckin’ Little Nicola account!” 

He paces the office while Sam loads up the page. Nicola follows him, mewling and pawing at his feet. Frustrated, Malcolm picks the cat up by the scruff of its neck and dumps him in Sam’s in tray. “Stay put yeh fuckin’ furball.” Nicola meows indignantly, but seems to recognise that the most sensible course of action is to keep a low profile. He sits down and starts methodically cleaning his balls. 

“Here it is,” says Sam. 

Malcolm moves to stand by her desk so that he can look over her shoulder. Someone’s got hold of an actual photo of Nicola. He's sitting on one of the chairs in the corridor and caught mid yawn, his mouth open and his tiny teeth bared. It looks like a miniature roaring lion. _Deputy Director of Communications, HM Government_ , reads the profile. _Likes: Dreamies, belly rubs, evisceration. Dislikes: Incompetence, idiocy, the Opposition_. 

The inaugural Tweet reads _“Hoping that having another Nicola around will stop the Sec State for Social Affairs and Citizenship forgetting her own name again”_. It’s followed by a stream of obscene tweets that Malcolm recognises as some of his own more creative epithets. @littlenicola has thirty-four thousand followers.  

“Right, that’s it!" Malcolm yells, jabbing his finger at the cat. "You’ll be in fuckin’ Battersea by the end of the day!”

Nicola stares at him innocently and meows. Sam stifles a giggle. 

* * *

Malcolm doesn’t think his mood could get any worse until Steve Fleming creeps into his office and his mental state tips over into actively murderous. “There’s a fuckin’ door there for a reason.” 

“The door was open,” points out Steve. His nasal voice grates on Malcolm like sandpaper. 

“Only because it bounced open when I slammed it shut.” 

“Oh dear, have you been a bit upset?” asks Steve in a tone best suited to placating a two year old.

“No, I’ve been a bit busy keepin’ the Party in fuckin’ Government.” 

“According to the papers, you’ve been a bit busy running a Twitter account for your cat - the lovely Little Nicola.” 

“Do yeh think I’ve got time to waste on fuckin’ Twitter? I’ve been Twatted.” 

“I believe ‘trolled’ is the word you’re looking for.” 

“I said what I meant.” 

“Nicola’s an interesting choice of name for a male cat,” observes Steve sweetly. “Although of course Nicola Murray _is_ the most attractive Cabinet Minister.” 

Malcolm practically chokes. “Attractive!? She’s a fuckin’ Brillo-haired explosion of frump.” Not that the other Cabinet members are much to write home about. Claire Ballantine is ginger and all the other female members are at least ten years older than Nicola. She wins by default, he reluctantly concludes. Like those races at the Paralympic where they can only find one blind, one legged runner with a colostomy bag that wants to compete.

“You did name your cat after her,” Steve points out. 

“It’s not my fuckin’ cat! And I only named it after her because she’s the only thing as fucking _annoying_ as the fuckin’ cat!” 

As if on cue, Little Nicola saunters through the doorway with a meow. He’s grown a lot in the last few weeks and has become quite rangy – more like a small, sleek predator than the ball of fluff he had been when Malcolm found him. 

“Ah, speak of the devil,” says Steve, bending down. His moustache twitches like a dying ferret as he smiles. “Aren’t you a lovely little pussy?” Little Nicola approaches Steve, sniffing at his outstretched hand. “I have to say Malcolm, he’s far more friendly than his Tweets suggest.” 

“Was there a reason yeh came in here?” 

Steve’s prevented from answering by Malcolm’s door slamming against the wall as Nicola Murray barges through it. “For fuck’s sake Malcolm! Is it your _mission_ to make me look like an idiot?”

“You _are_ a fuckin’ idiot!” Malcolm yells, his last shred of patience snapping. “My best, 24 fuckin’ 7 efforts can’t hide that!”

“You’re supposed to be in charge of communications! Why the hell did you let the sodding Telegraph publish an article that makes me look like the laughing stock of Westminster? And why didn’t you know about this sooner - this account’s been on Twitter for bloody weeks! Thirty-four thousand people managed to find it, why weren’t any of them in your fucking _team_!?”

“Now, now Nicky. Don’t get upset.”

Malcolm and Nicola turn to glare at Steve in unison. Malcolm isn’t sure Nicola had even realised he was in the room until he’d spoken. She’s definitely aware of him now though.

“Excuse me?” she asks, with an expression that could strip paint.

“Malcolm’s made a bit of a boo boo,” explains Steve in a tone that a five year old would find patronising. “But it reflects badly on him, not you. Everyone can see that you are an innocent victim of bullying.”

“No one asked for your opinion thank you Steve. And _don’t_ fucking call me Nicky.”

Steve’s mouth flaps open and closed. Malcolm finds his feelings towards her thawing slightly - from absolute zero to the temperature of the outer regions of the solar system. “Believe me, I’m no’ happy about it either,” Malcolm tells her, resuming their argument as though Steve hadn’t just interrupted it. “But at least the fuckin’ _cat_ hasn’t tweeted about crime stats.”

“I want you to find out who’s created that account and shut it down!” Nicola tells him with a violent jab of her finger for emphasis.

“As Malcolm’s also named in the article, perhaps it would be better if I led the investigation,” suggests Steve in his most ingratiating tone.

“You’re havin’ fuckin’ _nothin’_ to do with it!” Malcolm tells him. “ _I’m_ the Director of Communications.”

“For now,” allows Steve with a smirk.

“Until I fucking say otherwise!” Malcolm insists.

“Ow!” Steve hisses and jumps backwards. “Your ruddy cat just scratched me!”

Malcolm looks down. Little Nicola is crouched on his haunches, ears back and teeth bared. There is a deep gouge mark across Steve’s shoe and the hem of his trousers is torn, revealing a trail of blood on his leg.

“He's been learnin’ to catch rats.” Malcolm informs him. “Obviously recognised you as a member of the species.”

Little Nicola looks up, suddenly aware that he has the attention of all three humans in the room. He stretches lugubriously and then, very slowly and very deliberately, turns his back to Steve, lifts his tail and sprays a jet of urine against his trouser leg.

“Oh bloody hell!” yells Steve, kicking out at the cat. Little Nicola easily dodges his kick and saunters over to sit between Malcolm and Nicola.

Big Nicola’s hand is over her mouth. Admittedly the spray reeks, but from the way her shoulders are shaking Malcolm suspects that she’s holding in laughter rather than disgust.

Malcolm can’t keep his own face from breaking out into a grin. “Looks like even the cat wants yeh to piss off, Steve.”

Steve glares at him, his body taut with rage. “This is unacceptable Malcolm!” he says in a strangled voice. “Tom will be hearing about this!”

“Aye, run to Tom. Like he’s goin’ to give a fuck.”

“I’ll be sending you the dry-cleaning bill for these trousers. And these shoes will have to be replaced.”

“Not my fuckin’ problem Steve. It’s not my cat – it’s a stray.”

“This is un- _bloody_ -believable Malcolm,” he spits, quivering with anger. “You’ve crossed a line this time!”

“I’ve done fuckin’ nothin’! You’re the one that came into my office and provoked the fuckin’ cat until it attacked yeh.”

Steve turns to Nicola. “Nicky sweetheart, back me up here.”

Nicola’s expression is studiedly neutral. “Actually Steve, Malcolm’s right. Cats don’t attack unless threatened. And if you call me ‘sweetheart’ again I’ll tell HR about you trying to put your hand up my skirt. Twice.”

Malcolm looks at her in surprise – this is the first he’s heard of it, and he knows everything.  

“That was a misunderstanding,” stutters Steve, his ingratiating grin becoming fixed.

“Yes, clearly I misunderstood the part where you apologised and said you would never treat me unprofessionally again.”

“Nicky darling—"

Nicola raises a hand to cut him off. She is, for once, gloriously composed. Her posture is straight, her voice firm and her delivery calm and measured. If only she could behave like this at literally any other time in her working life. “As I’ve explained to you a dozen times, it’s Nicola. Nicky is a diminutive, which I find insulting and belittling. And if you’re not capable of working with women without insulting, belittling or harassing them then it’s my responsibility as a senior MP to uphold this Government’s zero tolerance policy on bullying and report your behaviour.”

Malcolm grins as Steve’s mouth gapes open. “Bu—”

“Best be careful what yeh say, Steve,” Malcolm tells him. “Bullying and harassment are very serious. Could be career ending.”

Steve looks from Malcolm to Nicola and back again. His top lip twitches as though he is sucking spaghetti. “F-f-f-fuck you both!” he blurts.

Little Nicola rises to his feet and stretches. He eyes Steve thoughtfully, flexing his claws, then takes a step forward. Steve yelps and backs towards the door. “You’d better get rid of that ruddy cat Malcolm, or I’ll make sure it gets put down. It's dangerous!”

“Do you have the number for HR, Malcolm? Nicola asks. "I need to refresh myself on the complaints procedure.”

“Sam’ll know,” he tells her, struggling to suppress a grin. “SAM!”

Steve lets out a strangled cry of futility as he slams the door shut behind him. Nicola dissolves into hopeless giggles, bending over at the waist and gasping for air.

“What is it?” asks Sam, appearing at the adjoining door and glancing between Nicola and Malcolm in confusion.

“Nothin’. False alarm.”

“Okay. Enjoy the rest of your meeting.”

After a full minute of helpless laughter Nicola straightens up, shoulders still shaking. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself. I’ve been wanting to do that for ages.”

Malcolm shrugs. “S’alright. Most enjoyable conversation I’ve had with you in...ever, actually."

"Good boy," Nicola tells the cat, bending down to stroke his head.

"Did he really put his hand up yer skirt?” Malcolm asks her. He's not adverse to verbal abuse or occasional physical violence, but he draws the line at harassment. Men who feel the need to make themselves feel big by groping women should be castrated in his view.

She nods. “He’s a bloody sex pest. Hopefully he’ll keep his hands to himself for a few weeks at least.”

“Aye, well if not I know a few papers that would be interested in the story. It might cover a lot of bases actually – Steve’d get the sack, Tom’d look human and you’d come across as fuckin’ sympathetic for once.”

She rolls her eyes. “Well thank you Malcolm, it’s reassuring to know you have my best interests at heart.”

"Always."

Little Nicola meows, pawing at Nicola’s shoe. She bends down to pick him up, rubbing his ears until he is purring. “You can’t keep him after this, you know. Steve _will_ try to have him put down to spite you.”

“I never was fuckin’ keeping him!" he says indignantly. He's been telling the same thing to anyone who will listen for weeks. He's just never quite got around to arranging for the cat to go to the shelter himself when it became clear that Sam wasn't going to... "But yer right - there can’t be any more procrastinating. The little fucker’s got to go to Battersea before Fleming gets his fucking revenge.”

Nicola shifts Little Nicola in her arms. “Actually, I have an idea.”

"Wonders will never cease."

* * *

Malcolm gets to work the following Monday to find an envelope on his desk. It contains a homemade card. The front of the card is a photograph of Little Nicola bordered by a hand drawn frame of paw prints and mice. The inside reads:

_Dear Mr Tucker_

_Thank you for giving us your cat. We have been asking Mummy to let us have a pet for ages. Here is a picture of him on the new bed we got yesterday. We have changed his name because Nicola is a girl’s name. We have called him Malcolm after you instead._

_Lots of love_

_Tilly, Katie, Ella and Josh xxxx_

He shoves the card in his desk drawer and slams it shut. _We’ve called him fucking Malcolm_?! He’s going to kill Nicola Murray the next time he sees her.


End file.
